Capsule

I quickly jump out of bed. Today, I have another milestone. It’s been exactly twelve thousand and three days since I’ve been alive. I decided to celebrate this day with something unconventional. I’ll do something nice so I can remember this day.

A large flock of screeching crows tries in vain to dampen my mood. Even the overcast sky fails to do so. I whistle my favorite melody while scanning the street. I must perform a good deed.

There! I run toward an elderly lady struggling to climb a hill, dragging a shopping bag.
She notices me, shouts something, and speeds up. It seems she was only pretending to be exhausted. Even her old age appears to have been a ruse, as she quickly vanishes from sight. Gasping for breath, I search for another candidate to help. A small shop on the corner catches my attention.

“Life,” I read the sign. I’m sure this shop wasn’t here yesterday. Curiosity overpowers my dislike for shopping.
“Hello…” The rest of my greeting is swallowed by a gasp.
“Good day,” smiles the woman behind the counter. She’s wearing… it looks like pajamas. Green, with white elephants, probably better suited for my daughter.

I think this shop won’t last long, I calculate, glancing at the white elephants and empty shelves.
“Can I help you?” she waves at me.

This woman might not be entirely alright, I think, turning to leave.
Maybe she needs help, my resolution for today reminds me. I return, determined to perform a good deed.
“What do you sell here?” I ask jovially, trying to prepare the ground for quick assistance.
“Everything life brings,” she pulls a green watering can from beneath the counter.

A philosopher, perhaps? I think, watching her water a small cactus.
“So, this is a flower shop?”
“Could be,” she smiles, tearing a plastic bag from a roll.

See? You need to be careful; she might bite, I think.
“I mainly sell capsules.”
“Capsules? What kind of capsules?”
“Time capsules,” she pulls out a metal container.

It seems all her stock is under the counter. Why does she need shelves then?
“You don’t have one yet, do you, young man?” she leans on an antique cash register.
“No, why would I need one?”
“Well, people put things in them to remind future generations of themselves. Then they bury them, seal them in walls, or hide them in some other way, hoping someone will find them one day.”
“I don’t understand. Why hide it if they want it to be found?”
“It’s symbolic. And practical, too. To withstand the test of time.”

“Hmm, so you’re selling some metal urn and a cactus, right?”
“That’s not a cactus,” she says, slipping a bag over the spiny plant.
“It’s not? Oh, then what is it?”
“Misfortune,” she says, looking at me seriously.

I avert my gaze, fixing it on the nearest elephant.
“Hmm, do you have anything else interesting for sale?”
“Whatever you want, son,” she smiles.
“Do you also sell happiness?”
“Of course,” she bends down under the counter.
“Wait, ma’am! I’ve changed my mind. Just give me twenty decagrams of misfortune instead.”
“That’s not possible. Misfortune can’t be weighed. It’s only sold in pieces.”
“Alright, give me…” I calculate mentally.
“Five pieces of misfortune and one capsule.”
“Everything?” she pulls out a fifth cactus and wraps it in plastic.
“Yes. How much is it?”
“Five wrinkles,” she says, tapping on the register.
“Excuse me?!”
“Thank you for your purchase,” she smiles and waves.

This woman… well, I’d better go, I think, grabbing the purchase.

I run down the street, determined to do something good. Outside the city, I turn toward an old mill ruin. I quickly check my surroundings. Perfect, I’m alone. I kneel, remove a few bricks, and clear away some old mortar, placing the capsule into the hollow.

In my mind, I picture the five closest people and place the cacti into the urn. I seal it and cover it with soil.

I walk back, filled with joy and satisfaction. Not even the five new wrinkles I feel on my forehead can ruin the good feeling. I whistle my favorite tune and look forward to going home. I’ve buried their misfortune deep. Only happiness remains.

I already know what nice thing I’ll do tomorrow. After all, it’ll be my twelve thousand and fourth milestone…